Them
by Minirose96
Summary: Molly's real, but she's definitely got some explaining to do. Questions unanswered-How did it start?-Why?-Why did Mycroft choose her? - Sherlock's shocked, a first for him, John's accepting, And Molly, well, Molly's gotten herself mixed up into some real problems. Time is ticking. Will the false program and the machine be together, or will to many problems to bear? *Her Sequel*
1. Truth Revealed

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!**

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Truth Revealed**

_She smiled softly, and looked down, though still gazing at him through her lashes. "Hi. I'm Molly."_

_"That's a plain name, Molly." Sherlock's jaw locked. No. Impossible._

_John was glancing between then, wondering what the hell was going on._

_"Molly's an acceptable name, to most."_

_Bloody hell._

_Sherlock spun on his heel and walked out, slamming the door behind him._

John was utterly dumbstruck as he watched Sherlock take off before glancing ahead once more at the woman in front of him, who looked just a step away from a breakdown of her own. "What's going on here?"

Molly sucked up any hurt she may have been feeling - and she was definitely feeling it - as she looked to John. She smiled softly. It was good to see him in the flesh, even with the. . . unusual circumstances. "Hello John. . .I'm Molly. The Molly. It's a long story, but I'm not a program. Mycroft -"

"Bloody hell." John interrupted. "Sherlock's going to kill him. He's been a wreck you know." his expression softened then, and without warning, he approached her, and wrapped his arms around her. "Thank bloody hell you're real. We've missed you - all of us." he pulled away just slightly, to look her in the eyes. "You are not allowed to do that again, just so you know."

Molly was stunned. She expected a lot of things, hurt, anger, maybe a bit of hate, from both of them, but John, always John, was so kind to her. She remembered all the times he defended her against Sherlock in the beginning. It was a miracle, and it took all her will power not to cry with happiness. Things could be right again.

_Well. . . maybe not. _

The thought was unwanted, but Molly couldn't help but look towards the door that Sherlock had left from just moments ago. He, at least, seemed to well and truly despise her. She wondered, and even hoped a little, that most of his rage was against Mycroft - he certainly wasn't on her good list right now, after everything he had done.

John seemed to catch her mood, and he too glanced towards the door. "I'll talk to him. He's just. . . upset." Understatement. "Listen, if you still have his number. . ."

"I do. . . I was told not to contact anyone though. . ." Molly admitted, looking down at the ground. "I'll explain everything, I promise. It. . . it wasn't meant to be like this."

John nodded. "I'll hold you to that. Just, for now, pretend it's all normal. Text him the information on the body, because he'll want it once he calms down."

Molly nodded, and after the two exchanged a few more words, John left, and she returned to the body. In some ways, she was glad for the interruption. The poor woman on the slab had undergone a horrible death, and she wasn't looking forward to finding out what other, hidden damage might be lurking under the skin.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Sherlock compounded the information in his mind, piecing things together finally. Every odd habit, every annoying reaction from the program, every too-human sound, how had he not seen it? Even John had seen it, hell, even bloody _Anderson _had made quips about him finally finding a freak-girl for himself.

He slammed the doors on his way up to his flat, causing Mrs. Hudson to call a derogatory worried statement up, but the words didn't even register. He had things to do, things to delete and purge, as they should have been from the start. _Stupid, _he sneered. Emotions, weak, useless. He should have _known, _but he had been blinded by them.

He went to his laptop, still open - he rarely turned it off anymore - and made his first step in the purging. That damned cat. He deleted the background, leaving it as the plain windows symbol, before turning it off completely, and shoving it away. Stupid, useless, he should have known.

What else? Immediately, his eyes went to a stack of sheet music, where he'd written down the song. Had he needed to? Of course not, he'd had it memorized from the first time he'd played it. Sentiment, cold and cruel, had been the only reason to bother copying it to paper. Sentiment, he registered coldly, was also the reason he had the sheets in his hands. Sentiment, rage, had him tearing the pages, until they were in strips and squares no bigger than his palm. He released them then, allowing the torn scraps to scatter around the already messy room. What did it matter?

With a huff, he threw himself onto the couch, facing the back of it an effectively blocking out the world. What did the world matter, it's not as if it had done him any good as of late.

Of course, the world didn't seem to have any intention of allowing him his privacy, because no sooner had he settled than the door the the flat opened. Familiar footsteps. _John. _His mind registered dully.

"Piss off."

Still, John walked into the room, and let out an annoyed sigh. "You've said that so many times, it's lost it's affect mate, now quit being a prat. I should think you'd be happy - you didn't lose the woman you love after all."

At the mention of that word (you know which one I'm talking about) Sherlock sat bolt upright, and glared at John. "I do not, and have never loved anyone, least of all a bloody _computer program._" He spat the words out, standing to hover over the other man.

John glared right back. "Molly isn't a computer program, she's real, we've met her. Well, I met her, you were too busy running away from a difficult situation. Quit denying your bloody feelings. You were heart broken when you thought Mycroft got rid of her, and right now, you being a prick isn't going to help anyone."

"I was not running! And I was not heart broken, I was annoyed at his meddling, as always. You've got no right to tell me what _my _feelings are. As I've told you before, _I don't do feelings, _so kindly piss off, and quit telling me I've got them!" Sherlock had begun to raise his voice, until at the end he was practically shouting.

John shook his head, looking away from Sherlock's almost animalistic appearance. "Fine, Sherlock. Say you don't have feelings. You're wrong, but I'm not going to argue with you. I know what mourning looks like, and for you it's secluding yourself from the world, and playing your violin until it sounds like the instrument itself is crying."

He sighed, and looked back up. "I just hope you smarten up and try to work things out with the only person I've ever seen you actually happy with - machine or not, and thank hell not. She's real, and she's practically waiting for you. You're the only thing holding you back."

"Get out." Sherlock said coldly, turning away from him.

"Fine." John did just that, shutting the door quietly behind him. Still, he couldn't help but smirk, knowing his words struck a nerve. Hopefully, it was the right one.

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Whelp, there's the awaited Chapter One of the sequel to **Her**. I hope it held up to the standard you all have set for me.

Until next time! :*


	2. Text

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!**

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**Chapter Two**

**Text**

Sherlock listened to the door close quietly as John shut it behind him, but still he didn't move until the second door opened and closed downstairs.

John's words, curse them, gnawed at his mind, just as he knew John knew they would.

_She's real, and she's practically waiting for you. You're the only thing holding you back._

He hated these banal thoughts, caused by basic words strung together in the correct fashion. It was all so animalistic, instinctual even, to feel the desire he did, after everything that _she _did to him. He counted all the lost case hours, all the angry words at his friends, the sneering jibs at Mrs. Hudson and John and Lestrade, all for a failing human emotion that wouldn't just fade.

And now it was back, as though it had never left, but simply lay dormant in his chest, waiting to spring as soon as the warmth he had been missing was found again.

_Love._

It sickened him.

It enticed him.

It seemed to called his name, an ever-present voice in his mind that just couldn't be shut up, not matter how many walls he reestablished in his mind or fortified against the onslaught.

His phone beeped. Message, unknown sender.

Distraction.

Eager for something, anything to clear his mind, possibly allow him to sort through his muddled thoughts, Sherlock instantly dug his phone from his pocket, and checked the message.

_Body, twenty-seven, female. Bruising matches past victims. Toxicology report sent off already. Might be best if you come to Bart's to see for yourself, please. - _Molly

Sherlock felt his jaw clench. A case, ready and waiting, serial killer who had a clear type, but still couldn't be caught. it was perfect for a distraction, and she had the body.

The stone cold truth hit him then, that she had had his number, had it memorized, and had never, not once, bothered to message him. No, she had let him _wilt _into this state of madness.

This delusions drained. If there had been that emotion - He refused to even think the word - It could never had been shared between _them. _No. He may not be a master at sentiment, but Being friends with John had taught him the more important parts.

You don't allow the ones you feel strongly towards to suffer.

Hate.

Yes, that was the right word.

He _hated _her for what she had made him, this weak version of himself, weighed down by emotions, crumbling his walls and destroying the reserves he had laid to protect against them since The Woman.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, he couldn't direct all his anger at her - though she undoubtedly had a huge part in his downfall.

No, this was Mycroft's fault. And he would pay, dearly for bringing that false program into his flat.

First though, he had to. . . fix things. Yes, that might be the right turn of phrase.

He looked down at the scraps of paper that had once been the song, Molly's Song. He bent down, and picked them up before calmly walking to the kitchen rubbish bin and tossing the ripped pages away. He didn't want to see the shreds of the paper, a metaphor in his mind for the shreds the emotions had torn into his mind, flitting around the flat at the slightest breeze. He would forget. He would _ make _himself forget.

He felt almost relieved with that decided.

he looked down at his phone, and added the number to his contacts as well. Molly. And this one couldn't be deleted. His lips quirked up in the barest hint of a smirk. Well, not in the way Mycroft had deleted the program anyway. He would delete her in his own way, from his mind, until she was just the pathologist at Bart's, annoying and bothersome just like the rest of them.

He still had Mycroft to reprimand.

He still had the case to finish.

He still had a chunk of his life to purge.

Now it was time to prioritize.

_Send me the Tox reports as soon as received. Send pictures of bruising patterns, and any other unusual marks as well. You know what to do. -_ SH

He shot that off to her in an instant as he processed the information. The bruising, always the same on every victim from what he'd already read of the report files. Bruising on wrist and ankles - binding marks. Bruising on neck, from cordage - multiple, all made within four days of the woman's death and seven days after initial killing. Scratches, slim and short to thick and long, always in cross-crossing patterns down the arms made in the three days after disappearance before strangulation pattern begins - shows a love for blood but no care for the bandaging since the wounds are allowed to heal before death.

This man - and it was a man - had a very distinct pattern, every time. The woman, always between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, were kidnaps, cut, and strangled. man, nicknamed the KCS killer - Kidnap,Cut,Strangle, how original naming - seemed to prefer lighter hair, as of the seven victims, three were blonde, two brunette, one auburn, and one dark. All were petite women who showed little knowledge of how to defend themselves properly.

With the basics of the case laid out, and more information coming from Molly - He fully intended to use her as an assistance program until the case was over and he could deal with her and the mental damage she had done - that was two of the important things to do on his mental checklist taken care of.

Case.

Molly.

Now, to deal with Mycroft and his meddling.

He grabbed his coat from the hook and was out the door.

Sherlock had a single-minded determination to confront Mycroft on his actions months prior. He had not spoken to his brother since he had deleted the program from his computer. Anger, betrayal, the urge to simply kill him and be done with it, had been too strong for him to risk seeing him and upsetting Mummy further with the knowledge that her children just couldn't get along.

Now, he didn't care. Mummy could be as angry as she pleased, after his brother's actions.

It wasn't hard to deduce the major points of what had transpired behind the scenes. Mycroft had found her shortly after John moved out, and he had propositioned her with the idea of becoming a false artificial intelligence program. Why she accepted, he didn't know, nor did he care.

It had happened.

It was done.

And Mycroft would pay.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

_She'll be perfect._

_So kind, such a pretty face._

_I can't wait to see it twisted in pain._

_I bet she'll die so beautifully._

* * *

Chapter two! Yeah, Sherlock's a tosser, but we love him anyway :3

Hmm. . . Everyone always says that the finest line in emotions is the one between Love and Hate. What do you think of that?

Also, The killer, for anyone who doesn't get the reference, Is *loosely* based off of an American serial killer, the BTK killer (Bind, Torture, Kill).

Thanks so much to the lovely comments and reviews from **yesibelieveinsherlockholmes**, **Peacechips**, **Rocking the Redhead**, **SammyKatz**, **Bellarsam Chrisjulittle**, **MorbidByDefault**, **Bella Cuore**, **Missdaryldixon**, **Heather Snow**, **kia22**, **Renaissancebooklover108**, **Getting2KnowL**, **The Consulting Storyteller**, **wholocked12**, **Lais89**, and the guest.

Until Next Time :*


	3. Why

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**Why**

"But sir, you can't go in there! Mr. Holmes is incredibly busy and you haven't made an appointment." The receptionist, not Mycroft's usual assistant who would have known better, tried to stop Sherlock as he marched past the desk, heading straight for his brother's office. He was working late, as usual.

"Mr. Holmes doesn't have any meetings, Mr. Holmes is filling out paperwork, Mr. Holmes will see me, and most importantly, Mr. Holmes is probably expecting me, so for the sake of law and order, I suggest you quit now before he fires you for your negligence in learning your boss's relations." Sherlock barely paused for a breath through his seething monologue, and his words had the desired affect; she halted mid-step, and turned to scurry away, face flushed.

Was he harsh? Yes. Was the woman partially to blame? Again, in his mind, yes, so he didn't allow himself to feel at all guilty.

Now, back to more important matters.

Sherlock entered Mycroft's office silently, as opposed to the ruckus he had made getting there. He knew his brother knew he was coming. His brother knew he knew. There was no need for angry words or barging in like some uncivilized madman when a silent glare was just as well received and just as effective.

Mycroft simply looked up from his paperwork, sighed, and slipped the confidential documents into a drawer in his desk. "So Sherlock, you've finally decided to grace me with your presence. Whatever for?" He asked, keeping his face carefully blank.

"You know exactly why I'm here Mycroft." Sherlock replied stonily. He didn't bother sitting down in the available seat across from Mycroft's. He stood on the other side, one hand on the desk as he leaned over slightly, glare still in place. "What was the purpose of putting Molly in that position? Why?" his tone was stoic, but his eyes revealed the anger, pain, the demand for an answer that his voice hid away.

"It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, Sherlock. You were acting foolishly without Mr. Watson - need I remind you of the scare you gave Mummy the day before I presented her to you? I wanted to put someone with you that you would be interested in and who would be able to stand your lack of tact or courtesy for an extended period of time. Ms. Hooper was in a completely coincidental bind, and she fit the persona I was looking for, so I offered to make her, shall we say, problems, disappear if she would assist me for an undisclosed amount of time." Mycroft spoke normally, no real tone to his voice, but that fact alone had Sherlock narrowing his eyes, along with his choice of phrasing.

_A completely coincidental bind my arse. _

"What was the 'coincidental bind'?" he demanded, refusing to play along with his brother's games.

"You offend me brother. I had no such cause in Ms. Hooper's downfall. It was her own mistake in those she chose to keep company with. A report forgery that cost her her job, actually. It was in a way that would make it. . . difficult to acquire a new position in the same profession. I simply offered to use my minor role in the British government to erase the damage."

Sherlock's jaw clenched. He could easily piece together certain parts that Mycroft left unsaid. Manipulative was not a strong enough word for the underhandedness his brother would use to get his way at times.

"And you decided to end the contract after certain sentiments became plain to you."

Finally, Mycroft's stoic mask broke, his lip twitched downwards in distaste. "Yes. Sentiment, or, let's call it by the word you used, love. You fell in love with a program, and Ms. Hooper broke the rules of our arrangement by returning the feeling. I had such high hopes with her history that it wouldn't be an issue. Naturally, I terminated the contract, though I did still fulfill my part of the bargain. It wasn't her fault you went against your nature and fell in love after all."

Sherlock clenched his fists. "And you didn't feel the need to tell me that she was real after the contract was terminated?"

"Of course not. I knew you'd react rashly, and you have."

"She's working at Bart's, the only hospital I frequent for my cases. You knew we'd eventually come into contact."

"She found a way around the end of our agreement."

"What agreement?"

"That should be obvious by now, don't you think. Surely you've not lost your touch because of her."

Sherlock growled his frustrations under his breath, and slammed his fist onto the table before pushing away from it to pace, to allow his mind to take in the new information.

Mycroft had caused all of this, he didn't quite know how, but he knew that Mycroft was responsible for Molly's loss of employment. He'd set up the initial linking program. He'd disconnected the program later. He'd. . . _Oh, stupid, obvious. _"You told her that any communication she initiated between us would be the end of her new career, but you never limited her to places that she wouldn't come into contact with me at." As the words came, he stopped pacing.

"But that's not like you either. You would have made it known that she was not allowed to work there if you truly didn't want her there. You don't miss such innocuous details, because those are frequently the downfall of men."

"I did not believe she would be quite so argumentative. She informed me that our verbal agreement didn't limit her places of employment. As you know, I never go back on my word."

"You're still planning something." Sherlock accused, eyes narrowed.

"Believe what you want Sherlock. Go ask Ms. Hooper for her story if you must." With that, Mycroft looked down at his phone, and frowned. "I've a few things to attend to now. I assume you can sort things out yourself."

Sherlock had already been planning to leave, or else he would have challenged the clear dismissal in Mycroft's words. As it was, he had too much to think about. He still didn't have all the information, and that fact irked him.

Why?

What had made her a good candidate?

Why had she chosen to put herself in that situation?

How did she view the ordeal?

how had Mycroft covered for his own arse in getting her fired?

Too many questions, not enough information, and he couldn't be sure the information Mycroft gave him was authentic, considering the rest of the meddling the man had done in his life recently.

Later, he'd get the answers.

For now, nothing would change.

He still had the case.

He still had a murderer to catch.

And tomorrow, he had a toxicology report and seven corpses to reexamine for evidence. He'd have all the bodies prepared for inspection in the morning.

Everything else could wait.

Everything else would wait.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

_Yes, come closer._

_Stupid girl, you really should know better._

_Hasn't anyone ever taught you to be afraid of the dark?_

_Too late. Much too late._

_And now, you're mine. _

There was a scream, but no heard.

It was over in minutes, the unconscious woman loaded into the vehicle.

It was time to play.

* * *

Chapter three everyone. Jeez, I'm demented, aren't I, leaving you all like this? hehehe :3

Thank you so much to everyone who has Reviewed and commented the last Chapter. **The awesome beckster, Getting2KnowL, yesibelieveinsherlockholmes, Silkenslay, MorbidByDefault, Bella Cuore, Rocking the Redhead, apedarling, SimplySpectating, K.L. Burrell, kia222, wholocked12, Lais89, D.I. Lestrade, and LvPayne. **You guys are all amazing!

Until Next Time! :*


	4. Too Much to Bear

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**Too Much to Bear**

Sherlock returned to 221B for the remainder of the night. He locked himself in his room, ignoring when Mrs. Hudson asked him if everything was all right. It was such a useless question, considering the fact that if it has to be asked, obviously everything was _not_ all right.

Still, he refused to take his emotions out on the kind old woman. She certainly had done nothing to deserve his spite.

Spite.

Was that even the proper word for what he was feeling? It didn't seem to accurately encompass the full extend of what he was feeling.

Sherlock sat on his bed with his back against the head board. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared at the periodic table on his wall as he examined and categorized his emotions in an attempt to better understand them.

Anger. Yes, he was angry with his brother for meddling in his affairs, and causing all this to begin with.

Betrayal. He felt betrayed by Mycroft and Molly, for the deceit and the pain it had caused him. It didn't matter that Molly was under some sort of verbal contract. She should have found a way to contact him. He would have if the situation had somehow been reversed.

Confusion. Though he was loathe to admit it even to himself, he was confused because Mycroft's explanation left him with more questions than answers. He hoped that things would be clearer after he had the chance to hear Molly's explanation as well.

Hope. He wasn't even sure what he felt hopeful for. He was just able to recognize the feeling, and acknowledge that it was there. He would worry about the why of it later.

Hate. No, wait, that wasn't right. The past piece of his puzzle of emotions wasn't hate. It was similar, but where hate brought cold and even malice, this emotion brought something warmer.

He spent a majority of his isolation staring at but not actually seeing the periodic table as he tried in vain to identify that last gnawing emotion.

He was almost relieved when his phone rang, offering a much needed distraction. Never mind that he had spent the entire night worrying over his damned emotions, and well into the morning as well.

_We've found an abduction sight. It's him. Are you coming? - GL_

It perked his interest immediately. He knew who Lestrade was referring to even without the media's pitiful nickname for the man. The KCS killer had taken another victim, and they had a crime scene. One of the reasons he was so hard to pin down was the lack of a known abduction sight, even with the cameras located around London. Until now, none could be positively identified. That this one had been meant that the killer finally made his mistake.

Of course, it also meant that another woman was being held captive, with approximately seven days before she was killed and her body was dumped for them to find.

Sherlock smirked.

He'd solved cased with less time before. It was all a matter of looking at the facts, and staying detached.

The victim didn't matter. Only the case mattered.

_Send me the address, I'll be there shortly. - SH_

Sherlock set his phone aside and changed quickly into a fresh suit while he waited. He was just pulling on his suit jacket when the phone let out another small ding. He buttoned it the rest of the way before picking his phone us again to look over the address.

As he headed out the door, he texted John, falling back into a familiar pattern.

_It's not home night. I have a case, KCS. I need an assistant. - SH_

a few moments later, his phone beeped with John's response. He smirked.

_Send me the address. - JW_

Sherlock did so as he made it to the curb and hailed a cab. He knew he was cheating a bit - John hated this particular killer more than some because of the violence towards women, and he'd used that to his advantage when sending him the invitation to join him. He'd known using the name would draw John out, no matter how annoyed with Sherlock he might be.

Small victories.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

The scene was already bordered off with the classic yellow crime scene tape - it hadn't actually been an address so much as an ally that Lestrade had texted him.

John, surprisingly enough, had beaten him here, and was already on the other side of the tape talking with Lestrade. He looked distressed.

Sherlock ducked under the tape to join them, cutting off their conversation with his own question. "Well? What makes you certain that this is an authentic scene?" He asked, as he glanced towards the ally in question. They were standing just outside it. Another step, and he'd officially be standing in the crime scene, but he decided to wait, just until Lestrade explained.

The detective inspector only looked annoyed with his question. "Footprint, just like the one found at the Mallory scene. The man stepped in a patch of garbage and it left an imprint."

"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaimed, not in the least bit perturbed by the looks on the two other men's faces. Both of them had an air of 'not good' in them.

Sherlock didn't care, already snapping on a pair of gloves before turning to delve into the ally to look at the scene for himself, and pick up on the clues the Yarders had definitely missed.

Scuffling. The victim was caught off guard, but she tried to fight back. Most didn't. He'd misjudged this one, obviously. Definitely still a small woman, easily over powered, but it helped set a standard for the man. At least six feet tall. That didn't limit the list of potential suspects that much, but every small scrap of information was important, because combined they led to the truth.

Something glinting caught his eye. He bent down, and picked up the device. A mobile phone. A pair of simple white headphones dangled from them. That explained quite easily why the woman was caught off guard - she hadn't been able to hear.

"I've found the victim's mobile." Sherlock said as he strode from the ally, and held the device out for Lestrade to see. "If you'll give me a moment, I can get inside."

Lestrade pursed his lips in annoyance, before nodding. "We need to know who it is as soon as possible."

With that, Sherlock turned the device around, and set to work, swiping the device on. The background was some simplistic heart and flower design. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Typical. He recognized the pattern, probably from one of those horrendous online pages.

It was a pattern code, Sherlock could see the marks left by the owner. She rarely used it for anything but music, it seemed. Useless device, if that was all. Why not just get an MP3 of some sort? Sentiment, obvious.

Ah well, he knew what it was anyway, no need to dwell on the woman, she wasn't important.

He drew the pattern. . .

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

She let out a small whimper as she woke up, her tongue pressing against a taunt line on fabric. Gag, her mind filled in for her. At least it was clean.

Her eyelids fluttered. No blind fold. She looked around the room.

Plain, nothing special. A door was right across from her. A small cupboard on the far wall.

She was lying on a mattress, but there were no sheets. Dots of red were scattered on the fabric, with no real pattern. It didn't take a genius to know that the stains were of blood.

She shuddered, and tried to sit up. She couldn't.

Bound, wrist behind her back, and ankles together. She felt like a worm, waiting for a bird to pluck her from the ground after a fresh rain. So vulnerable.

At least she still had her clothes.

She tried to calm her breathing and listen. A scuttling from above her. Footsteps.

She was underground? No, not exactly. A basement. A shiver ran down her spine. Who knew she was missing? No one. She didn't have anyone looking for her.

She could have wept.

She didn't want to die, not like this.

Not before everything was sorted out properly.

_I'm so sorry._

Suddenly, the footsteps stopped. Then she heard a door open, and footsteps coming down.

She swallowed through her gag as the door opened.

_... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ..._

And was met with a very familiar face, though he'd only seen it once before. He went still, every noise around him suddenly dulled to the point that he couldn't hear anything more than a buzzing.

Vaguely, he heard his name called.

He felt the phone being pried from he grasp. He let it go.

Slowly, the noise returned.

"Who is she?" Lestrade.

John was pale as he took a look at the woman on the phone. She works at Bart's. . ." His eyes glanced over at Sherlock, who was still frozen in place.

"Who is it?" Lestrade repeated.

John took a breath, steeling himself, it seemed.

"Her name's Molly Hooper."

* * *

There's chapter four. I'm so sorry for the wait everyone! This one just didn't want to be written. Hope it was worth the wait.

Thanks so much to all the comments and reviews I've gotten. **Potix, The awesome beckster, MorbidByDefault, Rocking the Redhead, , Simplyspectating, SammyKatz, wholocked12, patemalah21, Lais89, Apedarling, Uncertain Anonymous, Renassiancebooklover108, Sherlollylover67, GreenInsomniaWriter, Anon, **and** Mickeydawn995. **You guys are all amazing!

Until Next Time :*


	5. A Solo For A Mad Man

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!**

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**A Solo For A Mad Man**

As soon as John uttered her name, Sherlock's mind snapped back into action. With a visible shake of his head, Sherlock began rattling off the information he had gathered that the Yarders had not yet acquired, the faster it was gained the better.

"Molly Hooper, one-hundred and ten pounds, thirty - four. She's on the older side of the murderer's scale but still fits within the parameters. Began working at Bart's three months ago. She works in the morgue, skilled pathologist but with no reliable means of defending herself. Small, petite woman, brunette, again, fits the man's usual victim classifications. She tried to depend herself, but inevitably failed, due to her being distracted by the music she was listening to - How do I know she was listening to Music? - Simple, the headphones are still attached to the device, if you pull them out you can hear what she was listening to. . ."

He spoke it all without taking a breath, so it was all one long string of almost no spaces between the words. It was almost frantic, but there was a precision to the way he strung his words together. Mentioning the device, he took it back and pulled out the headphones to allow the music to play while he continued talking.

Except he stopped as soon as he realized what he was listening to - it didn't take more than a second to recognize the chords and dips and sways of a familiar piece of music. After all, he'd composed it for her.

The dips and sways of the music were so unique, ingrained in his mind that it couldn't be any other else but the piece he'd composed for her. Even more, he knew that it from the first time playing it. The rawness, the newness of the notes, could only be described a whimsical and free. It had a brightness that had faded an all later replayings of the piece.

"Sherlock?" John said in a way that meant he'd already said it several times before with no response.

Sherlock looked up at him, and him mouth hardened. John, of course, didn't recognize the piece, did not know it's significance. No one did but the missing woman and him.

"Nothing. As I was saying, She was distracted by the music and therefore did not see or hear the assailant coming up behind her until it was too late. We now know he doesn't use a drug such as chloroform to subdue his victims during the initial kidnapping because this woman fought, hard but ultimately ineffective because the man is much larger than her. He is at least six feet tall, no taller than six feet, four inches, and has a large build, possibly a man who visits the gym often, but I can't guarantee that. It's a start, at least. The struggle was over in less than a minute, and the man carried her to his car - Yes, car, he left quickly, peeling away from the curb. He hit the gas, leaving the skid marks you see here - " He pointed out the marks. "They're freshly changed, you can tell by the clarity the tires made on the road, so also check any motor vehicle repair places and get a list of anyone who has changed the tires on their cars, in the last two or three weeks. It's a smaller vehicle, I can tell by the width of the tires. Send me any information as soon as you get it."

Again, he'd spoken quickly, barely taking a breath in that whole chunk of phrasing. Frantic, almost, but there was a controlled portion of his chaotic words.

Lestrade caught every word. He nodded solemnly. "You heard the man, check records on Gym memberships in London, and the auto shops. I want everyone on those lists cross referenced. Eliminate all females and anyone shorter than six feet. I want that list on my desk yesterday."

A small crows had gathered throughout Sherlock short mental disturbance and his subsequent explanations. The music was still playing on repeat as no one had turned it off yet. The violin solo seemed especially loud in the silence that followed Lestrade's order.

Even Anderson and Donovan were silent in the crowd, standing a few feet away from where Sherlock, Lestrade, and John were.

Of course, everyone here knew the significance of Molly, even if none of them knew the full story. Well, maybe they did, at least the important parts. After all, They had all figured long before Sherlock that Molly was a real person. He seemed to be the only one who had not seen beyond the intricate mask created by his brother. All part of his plan, he was sure.

Everyone who'd had the pleasure of speaking to Molly when he was distracted like her. She, according to them, had a bubbly, happy personality. No one could believe Sherlock had somehow acquired a pen pal, or girlfriend, or messenger, or whatever they assumed she was to him, that was as. . . as her. He couldn't blame them, looking back. He'd only seen the machine. Stupid mistake on his part.

"I said move it people!"

Lestrade's bellowing command finally stirred the crowd. People head off, several headed towards various police cars to begin tracking down the gym memberships and auto repairs shops within reasonable distances. Donovan and Anderson were among them, though they appeared to be heading back to the station to do computer work instead, start the cross referencing as data was sent in by the other officers.

Lestrade was the only one who lingered. He gave Sherlock a soft look. "We'll find her Sherlock. She's a good lass, we'll find her. I know you've been having your own problems recently with her, but you'll get the chance to fix them. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried." Sherlock said, scoffing. His eyes went blank, as they did when he was hiding himself and his emotions away. Now wasn't the time for such trivial nonsense. This was a case. He would deal with all else at it's conclusion. "Just get me the information."

With that, he turned, and strode away without waiting for a response. He'd do some information gathering of his own. Surely one of his homeless network in the area would have seen something. They were his eyes and ears around the city, that everyone ignored. If the servalience systems of the government hadn't caught anything, his homeless people would have, and he would find out what, police investigation be damned. He was not taking the risk of allowing them to handle this case.

They wouldn't be fast enough.

Already, he knew by the timeline that the cutting had begun. Three more days, and the strangulation would follow. On the seventh day, she would be killed. On they eighth, she would be found. They were already past day one. Seven days. He would solve this case before the seventh day, or he would die trying.

... ... ... ... ... ... ...

((Warning, possible trigger warning ahead. Mentions of recent past Non-Con blood drinking/mutilation))

Her arms were on fire. At least, they felt like they were.

The man had begun the familiar marks she's seen on every other victim. One X shaped lacerations on the inside of each of her arms, at the top to begin with. Each line of the X was about two inches long, and fairly deep. They would require stitches, and still most likely leave a scar. All the tests and reviews on the previous victims she had looked at had showed that.

But none of the tests had told her that he liked to taste the blood as well from the source. None of her struggles had done any good.

He'd pored some sort of cleaning agent that burned over the cuts when he was done, partially to clean them so she wouldn't get infected, and partially to erase DNA evidence. That was why she hadn't found it before, she was sure.

Disgusting.

She felt violated.

The only positive side of this was that her arms were unbound, though now she was chained to the small cot she lay on by her ankle. Still just as much of a prisoner. She couldn't even walk two steps away from the bed.

She was trapped.

Was anyone even looking for her yet?

* * *

There's Chapter 5. . . yeah. . . .

So, this is for future reference, if you can't handle bloodplay/drinking, or mentions of cutting or strangulation, it would be best to skip any parts that skip to Molly's point of view and experience. I'm sorry for not posting warnings beforehand. I honestly had no clue that this would happen in the story until it happened. . . Does that make sense?

Thank you to all the lovely reviewers on the last chapter, **Rocking the Redhead, yesibelieveinsherlockholmes, MorbidByDefault, the awesome beckster, IceQueenForLife, wholocked12, kia222, renaissancebooklover108, Sherlollylover67, lais89, apedarling, catty411, Diving in,** and **ShudvBnStudying**. You're all amazing!

Until Next Time! :*


	6. Gathering Information

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!**

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**Gathering Information**

Sherlock knew where and who the best eyes in the city were, and he knew for the most part which area each person was in every day. They alternated locations, so they were never in the same place in one week. To the average person the order had no rhyme or reason, but he understood the pattern so he was able to determine who had been in the area and where they were now.

That was how he found himself in a more downtown part of London. The buildings weren't in the best of condition, if they weren't abandoned entirely, but the people in the area were nice enough. It was to one of the abandoned buildings he went to. He didn't bother knocking, just brushed right in.

"I know you were located in the section of the city near Saint Bartholomew's last night. Come out and tell me what you heard and saw, now." Sherlock demanded to the empty room. To anyone else, the building looked abandoned inside and out, but in reality it was a popular squatting place for several of the homeless people in London. More importantly, he knew the man he was looking for was here now.

When no one came out immediately, he rolled his eyes. "Mouse, I've no time for this. A woman's life is on the line." He pulled out a note from his pocket, and held it up. Despite not being able to see him, he knew Mouse could see him.

Sure enough, he heard scuttling coming from a side hall, and Mouse came out. Mouse wasn't his real name, which was Michael, but the man really did look like the small creature he was named after. He had shaggy brown hair which stuck out at odd ends, and was a very small man, but when he needed to, he could get away from just about anyone in a flash. He was an excellent finder, and, most importantly, he was an excellent listener. If anyone had heard the commotion of the previous day, it was him. He just needed the right bribe to talk. Twenty quid was a good start.

Sherlock held the bill up. "Tell me what happened. You know what I'm talking about."

Mouse's gaze shifted nervously from the bill in Sherlock's hand to his face. Nervous. His words, or lack of them and hesitance, told more than he'd wanted to give away. The kidnapper was obviously someone known to the homeless network, that they feared. That wasn't odd though, considering what the man did. Murderers aren't usually popular people, after all.

Finally, he seemed to make up his mind. Licking his lips, he replied. "Big guy, wit' black 'air came walkin' 'round the area at 'bout ten. I've seen 'im around but I don' know 'is name. He went after this little lady wit' brown 'air. She was jus' listenin' to 'er music, walkin', and 'e just walked up behind 'er n' snatched 'er up real quick like. She put up a fight, I'll tell you what, but it didn' do nothin'. Dropped 'er phone thing durin' the fight, and 'e took 'er n' loaded 'er into 'is car."

He stopped talking, and Sherlock gave him the twenty before pulling out a second. Mouse's eyes went to that bill as well. Sherlock knew why; he never gave this much at one time, even for cases he deemed tens. At most, ten quid for every answered question, five for information brought to him later. Mouse was obviously eager to earn his keep and prove his usefulness. Sherlock could have smirked, had he not needed to keep a blank face for his bribing interrogation.

"Tell me what you know about the car."

"It was a dark blue, wit' a big scratch down the side. License plate was covered. It had a decal on the bumper, a bunch o' swirlin' lines." Mouse replied instantly, licking his lips once more.

"Draw the decal." Sherlock said instantly.

Mouse frowned, but he grabbed a pen out of his pocket, and a scrap of paper from off the floor. He drew the symbol using the wall as a base. It, the symbol, looked like three S's linked at their center point, encased in a circle. It was more of a flower design than random swirls. This was why Sherlock demanded a picture. Descriptions were rarely accurate, and the words 'swirled lines' encased far too many patterns for it to be of any real use. The picture, on the other hand, was worth at least a thousand words in this case.

Satisfied with his answers, Sherlock exchanged the bill for the drawing, and took a quick picture of it on his phone before tucking the scrap into his pocket for later review.

"If you find anything else, you know where I am." He said, leaving in the same fashion he entered, quickly and resolutely. This was just another piece of a puzzle that had to be completed.

As he walked down the street to hail one of the cabs that always seemed to be around for him, Sherlock pulled out his mobile phone and texted Lestrade the new information. It narrowed down the search fields even more so.

_Look for a dark blue vehicle. Big scratch on side. Decal on bumper, picture sent. Man has black hair. Narrow search results further and email them to me when available. - SH_

Even as Sherlock hit send, he knew it still wasn't a narrow enough search. There had to be several dark blue vehicles driven by black haired men all over London. Even with the limit of the decal and the scratch.

He had to look for a pattern in the locations of the body dumps. There had to be a pattern, some central point to look in first. He could accomplish that at home as he waited for the emailed information. He could do that until he could get access to the seven previous victims. Surely there was something they'd all missed that he could pick up on. In fact, he realized, Molly had sent off Toxicology reports, and had almost certainly finished the latest victim's autopsy. She may have documented something important.

It was settled then, he'd go to St. Bart's tomorrow to examine the reports and the cadavers if the cross-referenced reports weren't sent to him by then.

Sherlock set his jaw as he looked at the time. If she was taken at eleven last night, then just over one day had passed.

Six days left.

* * *

Chapter 6. . . whoo

Thank you so much to **mi****ssdaryldixon, Bellarsam Chrisjulittle, kia222, MorbidByDefault, Bazingal, wholocked12, Rocking the Redhead, IceQueenForLife, ChloeIsVictorious, The Consulting Storyteller, Getting2KnowL. The awesome beckster, AdaYuki, Lais89, mickeydawn995, Guest, **and** Renniassancebooklover108 **for all the lovely reviews.

Until Next Time! :*


	7. The Final Piece

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!**

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

**The Final Piece**

Three days came and went before new information came in. That's how long it took to process the lists and eliminate those who didn't fit the established type.

Sherlock hadn't spent the time doing nothing, each minute ticking away in his mind.

He examined the location where each woman was found, and where Molly herself had been abducted, both in person and on a map. There was no new evidence at the scenes, and on the map, the locations were haphazard at best. If there was a pattern, he couldn't see it, as hard as he looked.

He moved on to the physical bodies, looking for clues from the past victims.

From the first six bodies, he was angry at the damage done to them. Not by the killer, but by those who were meant to gather and preserve evidence. Whomever's job it was, Sherlock was quite certain that even Anderson could have done a better one.

The seventh body revealed the most, but still not nearly enough. Molly's notes on the subject were perfect - complete in every aspect. She hadn't skipped over a single detail, and for that he was proud of the pathologist. He'd known they would be, after seeing her work previously, though under different circumstances.

Each cut and mark was cataloged. Thanks to a toxicology report she had done, they now knew that no drugs were used at all. The victim had been conscious and able minded throughout the unjust treatment. The bruising was examined, giving an accurate time frame based on overlapping bruising.

Thanks to those notes, he was able to calculate exactly when everything would take place in the killer's domain.

But that didn't help at all, because there were still no solid clues to show a distinct area of London to begin the search. Today was not a good day to earn the consulting detective's scrutiny. Today was the day strangulation began.

It was only Lestrade getting him the cross referenced lists that stopped him from trying to deduce every individual in London into a stupor to figure out who had taken Molly.

Even with the list, there were several people to look through. With a population of roughly eight million people, and half of that being male, that made approximately four million men in London who could possibly be the killer. By eliminating those who owned dark blue cars, the number was swiftly reduced to just under half a million people. Those who went to the gym in that same category brought the number down to one hundred thousand men who could have done so. Those who recently got tires changed on their vehicles eliminated another eighty-thousand. Taking out those too short to be the killer brought the number down to approximately seven thousand individuals who fit the parameters set. And finally, the decal and the scratch. Only one thousand men within the parameters already set had a decal that even slightly resembled the picture drawn by Mouse.

One thousand men. That was still far too many for New Scotland Yard to cover in just under four days, with the legal procedures required to do a single house raid.

He could use the scratch to eliminate further, but the risk of it being fixed or repainted was far too high. The decal on the other hand, would most likely still be there since it was placed by the owner of the vehicle.

_Think. _There had to be something he was missing, any insignificant detail that would make the list smaller.

He looked down at his arm. Three nicotine patches. He had had four on it the previous day, but John had refused to allow him to keep the fourth one on, reminding him that if he got nicotine poisoning, he wouldn't be any help to anyone. Bloody hell, he hated those occasions when John was right.

He paced across the flat, motion helping him think as much as his aggravation was blocking his thoughts. Frustration did not begin to cover how he felt. It was grasping at straws, that one little detail. He knew it was there, in his mind, so close to the surface, but he couldn't scrape away the useless information to find that one single thought that held the key.

_Oh. _

It hit him like a wave across his mind, bringing a sense of accomplished peace. It was obvious.

The women were all kept alive, aware, awake. That meant that at least some of them screamed. There was also no sign of them being vocally restricted with a gag, so they would have been able to scream loudly, and often. There were never any complaints issued of a woman screaming. The silence, lack of a report, told just as much as having one would have.

It meant one of two things. Either the perpetrator had a soundproof room he kept his victims in that kept all noise inside, or he had a basement, and the natural sound barrier of the underground kept all sound inside. A basement was more likely. It was a calculated risk.

He texted Lestrade immediately.

_Cross reference the list again - with anyone who has a basement, and anyone who can be verified to have a soundproof room. Basement first. Send me both lists separately. - SH_

A very calculated risk. it would take at least another day to work on those last two pieces. At least another day for Molly.

His hand tightened painfully around his phone.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Molly felt numb. No one was looking for her. She'd be dead soon enough, just another corpse on the side of the road. A shiver ran down her spine. Her arms were burning in constant pain from the cuts he'd made on her arms. They'd scabbed over, but it hurt to even lay her arms down wrong.

The day before, he'd forced her to drink water, forced her to stay alive through the torture. She knew he demanded control. He would decide what was done to her and when. He would decide when she drank. He would decide when she didn't. He would decide when she died.

She heard footsteps above her and another chill ran through her. It was never good, when she heard those foot steps.

The door opened, and she paled further. She'd known this was coming.

He held a rope between his hands, and there was a cold grin on his face. He'd enjoy this, her screams and struggles as he wrapped the rope around her neck and squeezed. Molly saw the bruises. She knew what to expect.

It didn't stop her from feeling every pain, every second of oxygen deprivation as she clawed ineffectively at him, and at the ropes.

It didn't stop her from slipping unconscious and reawakening to the same pain several times, until he grew bored.

It didn't stop the hot, messy tears from trailing down her face as the door closed with a sad finality, locking her away once again to simply await the next torturous day.

She just had to remind herself. Three days. It would all be over in three days.

* * *

Chapter seven everyone! :3

Thank you to **Rocking the Redhead, missdaryldixon, Bellarsam Chrisjulittle, katierube, MorbidbyDefault, the awesome beckster, IceQueenForLife, Getting2KnowL, Lais89, Mary R.T., AdaYuki, Renassaincebooklover108, Wholocked12, **and** ReelaReela **for the wonderful comments :3

And thank you to my beta, Cumberburch :3 I keep saying it, and I will always say it, you're wonderful darling!

Until Next time! :*


	8. Assistance Required

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!**

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

**Assistance Required**

Two more days passed after Sherlock sent Lestrade the new eliminating factors. Sherlock, John, and Lestrade were in the latter's office now, looking over the lists that had been provided. The first list, with the basements, had one-hundred and thirty-two names and addresses. The one with known silence rooms contained seventy-three. In all, that was two-hundred and five houses to check.

Starting with the basement flats as what Sherlock viewed as the most likely case, they had managed to search twenty-three houses in the last thirty-nine hours. That left one-hundred and eighty two houses to search. They had less than two days left to search the remaining number. With that time, they had to travel from one house to the next, get search warrants, and file the appropriate paperwork that went with each raid. There simply wasn't enough time with the restrictions and limitations placed on them, and the lack of man power to do as many raids as it would take to find her in time, unless they had a lucky break.

Lestrade knew it.

John knew it.

Everyone knew it.

Sherlock knew it, but refused to admit it.

He was aggravated, staring at the names crossed off compared to the names that remained. There were far too many. All he could do to choose the next house to search was look at the address on a map and compare it to the relative proximity between the house and the locations of where the victims were found. The problem was, the bodies were haphazard at best. Everything was haphazard, the locations, the body positions, the cuts on the victim's arms, everything.

Wait.

Of course. _Stupid. _

John looked tired. He'd been up most of the night helping Sherlock. Even as exhaustion nipped at him, he caught the look of realization that spread across Sherlock's face.

"What is it?" He asked hopefully. That caught Lestrade's attention as well, and soon both of them were watching the consulting detective as he paced back and forth across the floor of the office.

"The cuts on the women's arms are horribly frayed and messy, but the blade used to make the incisions on all of the victims is incredibly sharp, so much so that even a novice should be able to make straight cuts, despite the women's struggles against the motion. So, why are the cuts so messy? It's so simple! The man is trying to disguise his expertise with the blade. Now, what kind of person would need to hide his expertise? Most men in his position would want to show off their skill set, but no, he wants it to go unnoticed. So, who has the training to make precise cuts but would want to hide that? Someone on a public record of some sort, obviously. Someone in the medical field, most likely a surgeon, though it could be someone of a lesser skill set."

He stopped, and faced the desk, all but glaring at the lists in front of him. "He's there, somewhere, in those lists, a doctor with a preference for women he can overpower, someone who is used to having women under him. A plastic surgeon."

He looked up sharply at Lestrade, who seemed almost speechless, but the stiffness in his jaw showed just how seriously he was taking Sherlock's words.

"How soon can you eliminate these lists again to the last possibilities?" Sherlock demanded.

"It'll take at least another day, to cross reference these men and confirm profession."

"That's too much time."

"I can't shorten it any more. Even then, it's taking a few shortcuts."

Sherlock's face went oddly blank compared to the amount of fierce emotion that had been there just moments before. "There's no way?" he asked quietly. The tone was completely different. No yelling, demanding, or insulting tones. For once, he was just a man, asking for something that slowly seemed to slip out of reach.

Lestrade just shook his head slowly. "I can't make the computers or my men work any more or any faster than they already are. This has been our top priority case for the last six days, you know that. I'll get the suspects list reformatted again, but it will take at least a day. I'm sorry Sherlock."

John stepped forward, and placed a hand on his shoulder. He'd remained silent as Sherlock and Lestrade talked, but now he seemed to be needed.

Except, he wasn't, because less than a second had passed before Sherlock had that look in his eyes, the one that meant he was going to succeed come hell or high water, and they seemed to be in some pretty deep water.

Sherlock stepped away from both of them and exited the office, already pulling out his mobile. He completely ignored John and Lestrade's respective questions of 'Where are you going?' and 'What are you doing?'

His phone was pressed to his ear before he left the building. He had even called. This was too important to text, and he knew that would be understood by the other man on the phone, who always called and never texted. He would know the significance.

"I need a list of all medically trained individuals in London cross referenced with what New Scotland Yard has already in regards to the KCS case."

"Hello to you too, little brother."

Sherlock sneered. "Will you do it or not?"

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Molly's voice was rough and chalky as she cried. It was an ugly, snotty mess that she wiped away on the back of her hand, but it only made her cry harder.

It had been another session of pain, of being strangled over and over, of gasping for breath until unconsciousness set in, only to be roused and restart the process all over again. She could feel the bruises forming on her throat, overlapping those from the day before, and the day before that as well.

There had been a slight change this time though. He'd had had to resuscitate her before he left for the day. She'd been dead, and he'd forced her back.

He really was going to decide the exact time she died.

The knowledge left her numb.

Thankfully, she had some solace in the knowledge that tomorrow was the last day. She'd examined the bodies. Six days had passed. The women were always killed on the seventh day.

Thank God.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

"Will you do it or not?"

Mycroft kept his tone bland, if a little reproachful, when he replied. "Of course Sherlock. You had but to ask."

* * *

Well, had to wait a little bit, but I finally got Chapter 8 done XD

A big thanks as always to the lovely reviewers, **Rocking the Redhead, MorbidbyDefault, IceQueenForLife, ReelaReela, missdaryldixon, The awesome Beckster, Adayuki, Bella Cuore, nhaquyen, Textin'Texan, Renassiancebooklover108, Lais89, **and** wholocked12. **It's always wonderful to hear your thoughts on this story :3

And thanks always to Cumberburch, for putting up with all my errors XD

Until Next Time! :*


	9. Screams Finally Heard

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!**

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

**Screams Finally Heard**

In under three hours, Sherlock had an email with the final possible suspects. There were only seven medical personnel of any kind who fit into the already - provided parameters even slightly.

John was sitting in his old chair at Baker street, watching Sherlock glare down at the files as if demanding they give him the information he needed. He'd managed to catch a bit of sleep earlier, but had quickly joined Sherlock here after he found out what he'd done after leaving the Yard. Calling his brother could not have been easy. John was a bit surprised, honestly, given what he'd done to the younger Holmes.

One was eliminated for being out of the country with his wife at the time of the abductions of victims four and five.

Two more were eliminated because they had been on shift working during the known abduction time of the latest victim, Molly.

Victim. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. He had to compartmentalize it all. This was just another case, just another faceless person.

He set the three men aside, and pulled the final four files he had printed out in front of him. Mycroft had been thorough in every aspect. Height, weight, vehicle pictures, even candid full body pictures of the men taken via surveillance systems in the last seven days.

Having the British Government as one's brother definitely had its advantages.

He pulled the candid pictures from each of the files, and examined them closely.

Man number one. Six feet and two inches tall, weighed approximately 180 pounds. Not him. Too slim, a medium build. The man he needed was larger.

Man number two. Six feet and two inches tall as well, weighed approximately 215 pounds. Worked as a general practice doctor in a small clinic. Possible.

Man number three. Six feet, one inch tall. Weighed approximately 195 pounds. Not - _wait. _Sherlock narrowed his eyes, looking again at the man's name. So bloody obvious.

John sat up, noticing the glint in Sherlock's eyes.

He looked down at the file as Sherlock snatched up the picture and corresponding file, and headed for the door.

John could barely keep up while sending a text to Lestrade. It wasn't much, but he'd only caught a glimpse of the name. He could see why Sherlock was so certain. Hopefully the Detective Inspector would get there before they did.

_Sherlock's found him. Xavier Daniels. - JW_

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Molly felt numb. She'd fallen asleep after the man had left her alone. Now, she was awake again. She had the feeling that not much time had passed. The slightly deeper chill in the air told her it was night time. She let out a soft sigh.

The man had gotten a bit cocky in that she was no longer restrained in any way. She'd stepped off the mattress to test the door out of curiosity, and found it locked.

Not too cocky, then.

It embarrassed her how much her legs shook as she walked back to the bed, and collapsed onto the mattress before pulling her legs up to her chest, and holding them close.

She felt. . . resigned. Resigned to the fact that in less than twenty four hours, she'd be dead. Just another corpse on a cold, hard slab to be examined and then buried in the cold, hard ground. Maybe she'd even end up at St. Bart's. Wouldn't that be a bit funny?

At that moment, Molly didn't really find it all that amusing, actually.

She sat up and put her back to the wall, leaning against it for support. It was the only kind she'd be getting.

She began to doze.

Until she heard shouting above her.

Her gaze shot to the ceiling.

Then, she heard it. Well, him. His voice. The one she'd heard for months. Sherlock.

Finally, something. It was almost silent, except for the noise coming from above her. A chance to be heard. She screamed as loudly as possible, through the croaking, through the pain of a throat that wanted to close under pressure. She screamed, and prayed that she'd be heard.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

John was barely able to keep Sherlock from rushing into the house until Lestrade was able to get there. As it was, he couldn't stop Sherlock from examining the vehicle in front of the quaint home.

It was an exact match to the description that Mouse, his informant from the homeless network, had given him. Dark blue, with a large scratch on the left side, scraping from the passenger side door to near the back of the car, cutting off just before the tires. There was also the decal he'd been searching, the three overlapping S's in a circle, almost like petals on a flower.

Sherlock had no doubts now.

Thankfully, John didn't have to almost literally hold him back for long after he'd positively identified the vehicle. Lestrade, along with Donovan, pulled up in an unmarked cruiser.

Sherlock stood, his hands shoved in his pockets and clenched into fists. He kept his face blank as they approached. Mostly.

"This is the house." He said, as soon as Lestrade stopped in front of him.

"Sherlock, we can't just barge in without a warrant, and you haven't given me the time to get one. Now, it's late, we can come back in the morning, with the proper paperwork."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "This is the house. If we wait until morning, Miss Hooper will be dead. Do you want that blood on your hands, Detective?" He knew it was an underhanded assault, but his words were doing the trick. Lestrade glanced from him to the house, his jaw stiffening.

He was weighing the odds.

John stood to Sherlock's side. He seemed to be in military mode, waiting for an order to follow. Anyone could tell though that he was hoping for the all clear, for permission to go in and get her, no matter what it took.

Finally, after a glance behind him at Donovan, who had a somewhat sour look on her face, Lestrade sighed and nodded. "All right, but we do this by the book. Sherlock, John, you're not to say a word. Got it?"

John nodded, his shoulders loosening slightly.

Sherlock didn't say a word, but Lestrade took that as an affirmative.

From there, it was simple. Lestrade wouldn't burst into the house like some mad man. It was a routine check up, because of an anonymous tip. At least, that's what he said they were going to play it as. He even went so far as to send Donovan back to the squad car to wait for a silent signal. Too many people coming up to the door would only lead to suspicion.

With instructions clear, Lestrade led the way up to the door. It was only nine, so, while a bit late in the day, anyone inside would most likely still be awake.

He knocked on the door, and waited as a light flicked on in the hall way, and the door was opened by a simple, plain though tall and big-chested man. He had a dressing gown over his pajamas, draped and untied, clearly just thrown on over his apparel.

"Hello, Mr. Daniels," Lestrade began, keeping his voice steady, authoritative but not threatening as he held up his badge before tucking it back into place.

For being disturbed so late, the man kept a smooth face, even going so far as to smile softly. He looked like the kind of man you would accept a ride from in a tight spot, not the kind of man who would kidnap, torture, and kill several women. You never could judge by appearances alone though.

"What can I do for you - what?!" He was cut off as Sherlock, definitely not staying silent, gripped at the hand Mr. Daniels had extended for Lestrade to shake, and he shoved up the sleeve. There was wrapping around his forearm.

"She fought you, when you took her. Left marks, didn't she?" Sherlock said coldly, shoving into the room, past them all, his eyes already searching.

"What's going on here?" Mr. Daniels said loudly, still playing dumb. Odious fool.

With a drawn out sigh, Lestrade stepped in past him as well, followed closely by John.

"You know exactly what's going on here, Mr. Daniels. Or would you prefer Xavier? It is, after all, the initial you carved into those women's arms. X X X. Bit cocky, really, giving such a big clue." Sherlock said, sneering as he turned to him. "Now. Where. Is. She."

Lestrade, finally understanding, stiffened his jaw, and unclipped his hand cuffs from his belt.

Sherlock, meanwhile, didn't wait for his reply, already knowing there wouldn't be one. Basement. Had to find the bloody basement.

Then, he heard it. Almost deafened, covered by Lestrade and Mr. Daniels arguing about the need for a warrant, and other such nonsense. Screams, coming from somewhere. He couldn't get direction, with all the extra noise.

Bloody hell - "Shut up!" He shouted, and finally, things fell silent.

Except for those screams.

Forward, left.

He ran into the main room and to a door that, to anyone else, seemed to lead to a storage closet. The location was all wrong for a basement. But it was, if the hasty shuffling behind him meant anything.

"Stay away from there!" Finally, a shout, a reaction.

Sherlock didn't have to turn around to know from the thump that Lestrade was finally doing the necessary thing, hand cuffing Mr. Daniels.

He didn't pay more than a sliver of attention to anything but the door in front of him.

He pushed it open. Stairs. The screaming was louder now, broken by the occasional sob. There was another door at the end of the stairs. Banging, on the other side.

Sherlock took the steps two at a time. He tried the handle.

Locked.

Key.

He went back upstairs, his gaze narrowed on Mr. Daniels. "Where is the key?"

The man stayed silent, but no one could hide their body's reactions. He looked towards a decorative box, filled with colorful rocks. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock carelessly spilled them on the table the box sat upon, and picked up the key he needed, heading back to the door.

The banging was over now, but sobs were heard clear through the door, loud, broken by coughing fits.

Sherlock unlocked the door, and slowly pulled it open.

Molly was slumped against the wall. She didn't seem to register immediately when the door was opened. She seemed to have shut down completely.

"Molly."

A hiccuping sob was the only answer.

He knelt down beside her and waited.

When the sobs subsided into small whines, he said her name again. Finally, a reaction. Her head jerked up at her name. She swallowed, obviously trying to speak, but he just cut her off.

"Later. Just wait here." He stood up, and moved to go back upstairs and have someone call an ambulance, but a hand putting a death-grip on his pant leg stopped him.

He looked down at her, but she didn't look up at him. She didn't need to.

Sherlock didn't make another move to step away. Lestrade would be down in his own time.

* * *

Chapter 9! WHOOT

I love all of you guys, my lovely reviewers, **missdaryldixon, SammyKatz, Bellarsam Chrisjulittle, MorbidbyDefault, IceQueenForLife, Calicar, SharpestSatire, Rocking the Redhead, ReelaReela, Renaissancebooklover108, Bella Cuore, Guest, Wholocked12, mightiemouse, NoLongerInTexas, TypicalGingerFangirl, Lais89, mickeydawn995, Whosaidblondescan'tread, LordMaru4U, ****justanobody23,** and **Nelly**. Seriously, ya'll are amazing!

Thanks everyone for their patience in me!

Until Next Time! :*


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